The Cocoanut

I nursed my self-imposed consumption deprivation by looking out for discounts at the local supermarket. Less glamorous perhaps, but definitely more affordable. As luck would have it, the traditional Italian Christmas cakes, panettone, were reduced to half-price, and I was more than happy to pick one up. The panettone cakes are packed in cardboard boxes and come in typical dessert flavours such as hazelnut, tiramisu and baci. Panettone, although used as Christmas cakes, are actually a type of rich, sweet bread that is naturally leavened so that it develops a spongy, soft texture. Imagine, if you will, a bread version of chiffon cake, and you get an idea of how panettone tastes like in texture.

I’m a big fan of rich bread (who isn’t?) such as the French brioche and Jewish challah, so I was excited at the prospect of trying out my Tiramisu creme-filled Christmas panettone. The panettone is shaped into a cupola and covered in dark chocolate icing. The bread itself was delicately rich, not overwhelming, just comfortably so. The tiramisu creme filling was superb, its richness deceived by its meager, thin layering. I only wish that the makers would be more generous with the filling, because it left me wanting for more, yet at the same time cautious not to ’steal’ from the other sections of the cake, lest I dismember the entire panettone into unrecognizable, creme-less pieces.

This time around it turned out exactly how I wanted it: fantastic, succulent, savoury roast chicken, and the secret of my success is in the stuffing. The stuffing had some of my favourite ingredients, which I know will pair well with one another, and more importantly, complement the roast chicken with all its juices.

The stuffing consists of:

1 medium onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
2 anchovies, from one of those Italian jars in which the fish is preserved in oil, chopped
a handful of mushrooms, chopped
2 slices of white bread, crust removed and cut into small pieces
dried parsley
salt and pepper to taste

The stuffing starts innocently enough by frying the onion, garlic and anchovies, until the aroma completely permeates the kitchen and the onions start to turn a light golden. The smell of the anchovies melting in the oil is so intoxicating. At this point, add the mushrooms and fry for a couple of minutes, adding the dried parsley, salt and pepper to taste.

Remove everything from the pan and reserve the oil. You can drain some of the anchovy oil from the mushroom mix by pressing them through a sieve. The anchovy oil is like gold. Use this to fry the bread crumb until crunchy. I have to say, I love fried bread. It’s like the ultimate indulgence. Crunchy yet so satisfyingly tender from being soaked in anchovy oil. Once the bread’s fried, add them to the mushroom mix. Have a taste, and let your mind go wild with the promising prospect of having that stuffing together with the roast chicken.

Insert the stuffing into the cavity of the chicken before roasting it in the oven. The aroma and savory flavor of the garlic and onion is perfectly complemented by the saltiness of the anchovy, and the fried bread crumb, together with the mushrooms, just heighten the overall sensation. It’s simply ridiculously fantastic.

Books are perhaps only second to furniture in terms of weight to carry, and I was forced to reflect if it would’ve been sensible - and less painful for the back -to simply stick with 3 or 4 cookbooks.

The truth is, 3 or 4 would be severely inadequate, even if I’ve only really attempted about a quarter of the recipes in my cookbook collection. Blame it on today’s culture of instant gratification and sense of entitlement for the trend of buying so many cookbooks. The I-want-it-NOW! Philosophy completely validates buying that Spanish cookbook just because you feel like trying out a Paella recipe for dinner.

In the interest of frugality, we could make do with just a couple of books and rein in on conspicuous consumption by assuming the role of the anti-capitalist crusader, but then would we really want to rebel against something as delicious as paella?

A cookbook is not merely a repository of recipes, a manual on nourishment. If it was that utilitarian, I and many others would not be so haplessly addicted that we can’t seem to stop ourselves from buying another one.

No, like their illegal pharmaceutical counterparts, cookbooks are pleasurable. They act as kitchen tomes that preserve and celebrate the hundreds of years of experiments and experience in the mixing and mingling of ingredients and flavours.

The primal sensations of chopping and slicing and cutting, of stirring and banging and kneading and squashing, and the ultimate reward of eating, sucking, licking, tasting, all begin their embryonic development with a flick of a page through a favourite cookbook.

I’ve seen similar recipes that call themselves banana bread, but I think that is taking the self-deceit concept a little too far. The ratio of sugar, banana and flour in this, and those recipes, gives the finished product a moist, faintly sweet taste that is not at all bread and closer to being a cake. However, if you, like me, are obsessed with proper classification, then perhaps a more suitable description would be ‘tea bread’.

I personally enjoy this cake, oops, tea bread on its own, although if you feel like a devil you could always intrude on its purity by tainting the cake with honey and butter to spread. You could even create a twisted cake version of the good ol’ banana split and have it with ice cream and choc sundae sauce. That would be profane. But it could be good.

Moist Banana Cake
Makes 1 loaf

200 g plain flour
2 ¼ teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon (optional)
75g butter, at room temperature
115g caster sugar
3 ripe bananas, mashed
2 eggs, beaten to mix
poppy seeds (optional)

1. Preheat a 350ºF/180ºC oven. Grease a loaf tin (21 x 11 cm).
2. Sift the flour, baking powder, salt and cinnamon into a bowl.
3. In another bowl, combine the butter with the sugar. Beat until the mixture is light and fluffy.
4. Add the mashed bananas and eggs and mix well. The degree of mashing depends on your personal taste.
5. Add the dry ingredients and blend quickly and evenly. At this point I like to fold in the poppy seeds, a reasonable amount to give a slight crunch to the texture of the cake.
6. Spoon into the prepared loaf tin and bake for 50-60 minutes.
7. Cool in the pan for about 5 minutes, then turn out on to a wire rack to cool completely.

Unsurprisingly, the happiest recollections revolve around the kitchen, which fulfils its dual role as a place of private reflection, when I’m cooking on my own, and a social space when friends come over and cook together the feast to come.

Food nourishes the soul not just by satiating one’s hunger, but also through the opportunity of connecting with friends and family over the meal that we’ve cooked together.

Most of the food featured on this blog was prepared in this kitchen, and although I will miss it dearly, I look forward to happy times in my new home.